


Ex Delicto, De Novo Ad Infinitum

by scarletjedi



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Avocados at Love, Complete, Dirty Talk, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3832369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletjedi/pseuds/scarletjedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a transgression (consequences of a crime), anew (a restart) to infinity (continuing on forever)</p><p>Matt and Foggy get back up again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ex Delicto, De Novo Ad Infinitum

**Author's Note:**

> The bulk of this was written in a fevered haze in about 24 hours. 
> 
> Thank you, Proxydialogue, for a wonderful beta!
> 
> You want more of me? Want to see my ramblings, fan works, and sneak peaks? Or is a story you love not updated when you expect it to be? Check out my [tumblr](scarletjedi.tumblr.com) for status updates and more!

Things calmed in the wake of Fisk’s capture, which, while good for Foggy’s peace of mind, was bad for business. As March faded to April and their cases remained _de facto pro bono_ , that fact did not escape him. The days began to warm in spikes, one day it’s a brisk fifty degrees, the next it’s pushing seventy before plummeting back down to forty.

One Wednesday peaked at eighty degrees, and Foggy felt like he was going to melt out of his suit—the good one his mother and his aunts went in together to buy him. There was no air in their office, just like there was barely heat in the winter, and the beat up fan Karen brought in just pushed the hot air around. Even sitting where he was, at the end of Karen’s desk, practically in front of it, provided no relief. All the windows were open, but the heat always sent everyone outside at street level, and it was loud enough that Foggy couldn't concentrate. He wondered how Matt was doing.

Things still weren’t great between them after, well, everything. They’d never be what they were, but they were doing better all the time. It was enough to make Foggy think this might have actually been _good_ for them.

Matt still came in bruised and bloody, still had nights where he couldn’t be reached by phone and walked like he was ninety the next day, but with the Kingpin’s empire in tatters, the newly christened Daredevil was dealing mostly street crime. A snatched purse. A stolen wallet. Muggers. Assaults. Murder—all averted because of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

“My god,” Karen moaned, dropping her head to her desk. “This fucking heat.”

“Try not to think about it,” Matt said, low and amused. Today was a good day. The bruises were all fading, no open wounds. He even managed to shave this morning, which usually meant things were on the up in the World of Matt Murdock.

“What else am I going to think about?” Karen asked. “We have no clients.”

Now it was Foggy’s turn to groan. “Don’t remind me.”

A chair creaked—Matt’s, and Foggy looked through the glass. Matt had stood and made his way to the doorway of his office. He had taken his jacket off, rolled his sleeves up the elbow. It was a good look on him. He wasn’t sweating through the back of his shirt, like Foggy was. Jerk. “You can go home, if you want,” Matt said. “No sense staying here and baking.”

Karen smiled at him. Her smiles had been tired of late. The last time he and Matt were at Josie’s, Matt had mentioned that he was worried about Karen; there was something bothering her, something he had expected to disappear when the threat of Fisk had been eliminated. At the time, Foggy has said it was a normal, non-vigilante reaction to everything they had been through. Now, Foggy couldn’t not see it.

“So I can go home and bake?” Karen asked. “No thanks. My apartment’s on the third floor, too. It wouldn’t be any better.”

“Better than the fifth,” Matt said, and Foggy couldn’t help himself.

“You hear this guy?” He said to Karen. “They only ever plead the fifth when they’ve done something wrong.”

Matt stuck his tongue out at him, but Karen laughed, which was the point. Score one for Foggy. “Maybe I will head out, if you don’t need me,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to visit with Doris. I can wait out the worst of it there.” Doris Urich.

Foggy closed his eyes for a moment; it had been necessary, to miss Ben’s funeral, but it was something that Foggy was going to regret for a long time.

Karen stood, gathered her things, and left with a cheery wave. Foggy waited until he couldn’t hear her anymore before he spoke.

“My apartment isn’t any lower to the ground, either,” he said. “Josie’s?” he asked, not really expecting Matt to say yes, and ready for Matt to reject him and gallivant off into the hazy afternoon to fight crime and muss up his unbruised look of utter normalcy. 

Matt hesitated for just a moment, shoulders tense, but then he relaxed all at once, and smiled gently. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”

Foggy snapped his fingers, pointing at Matt. “Excellent! Grab your stuff, lets lock up and _go_.” He spun, throwing his jacket over his arm and grabbing his case, and went to wait by the door. It usually took Matt an extra second, even now when he let himself relax. Karen gone, Matt was less careful—his stick remained propped in it’s usual place by his door, his steps were sure and—actually, now that Foggy was watching, he realized how little had actually changed about how Matt moved. He almost always left his stick by the door because he knew the layout of his office, and had for weeks. It was the same way he had moved around their dorm room, or his apartment, or _Foggy’s_ apartment.

Huh.

“You’re staring,” Matt said.

“Yeah,” Foggy said, not bothering to deny it. “I keep expecting you to, I don’t know, break out some sweet-ass ninja moves or something.”

“In these pants?” Matt asked. 

Foggy snorted. “Please. I’ve seen the sorry excuse for a costume you used to go out in. I’m surprised more people don’t realize you’re blind.”

“Har har,” Matt said, and reached out. Foggy offered his arm out of habit, and it wasn’t until he had Matt’s fingers, warm in the crook of his elbow, that he realized. “What? You just went all tense.”

Foggy shook his head. “I just—“ _shook my head._ he didn’t say. He didn’t need to. Not with Karen gone. “When we...I just started guiding for you again out of habit, I didn’t even think to ask if you still wanted me to.” 

“I do,” Matt said, quickly. “I reached for you, remember? It’s easier, I…” he shrugged. “I’m still blind, Foggy. I don’t—I tried to explain it to you before.”

“Yeah,” Foggy agreed and led Matt out the door. “But you did a shit job of it, which is okay because I was pissed and doing a shit job of listening.” He closed the door, locking it and looking, as he always did, at the handwritten sign “Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law.” Someone, probably Karen—okay it had to be Karen—had found a little sticker of a smiling avocado and stuck it to the bottom corner.

Matt was smiling when he turned around, a bit sad and unsure, and suddenly Foggy missed Matt as he’d been in college, when he’d throw his head back like the ginormous dork that he was, that _they_ were. “Come on, buddy,” he said. “Let’s go get wrecked.”

Foggy kept up his usual level of chatter as they walked. He never realized how much of what he said was describing things for Matt. The third time Foggy caught himself, Matt tightened his grip on Foggy’s arm. “Please,” he said. “I like hearing your voice.” 

Well. What was a guy supposed to say to that? He kept talking. 

Josie’s was Josie’s. The bar had stayed open through Sandy and the Blackout, and even though the Invasion. It was their one constant, unchanged and unimpressed even as the city burned to ashes around her.

Usually, they drank at the bar. Matt would carefully climb onto a stool and Foggy would throw himself onto the next one down. They’d flirt with Josie, Josie would be unimpressed but give them a bottle and a pair of glasses, and they’d proceed to drink until they got the spins.

Sometimes, like today, Foggy got the bottle from the bar while Matt grabbed a table. It wasn’t usually hard. Most of Josie’s patrons either stayed close to the booze or around the pool tables. There was enough low-level noise to cover their conversation, which is exactly what Foggy wanted.

Foggy poured their drinks, and passed Matt his glass. “To…something.”

“Something,” Matt agreed, and Foggy clinked their glasses. Matt always took the first sip easily, and Foggy watched his throat work. Matt's jaw was starting to grey.

“Explain it again,” Foggy said, and Matt nearly choked.

“What? Here?”

Foggy nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Here. Nobody’s listening.”

Matt raised an eyebrow at that, just visible over his glasses. The dark red lenses looked black in the light, and for a moment Foggy saw it...the devil in his best friend. He cocked his head, which meant he was listening—to what, Foggy didn’t know. All he could hear was the rickety jukebox playing Bad Company—and nodded. “Alright,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Foggy said, and leaned in. “I want to know everything, Matt. I—don’t know. That’s the problem. I _don’t_ know, and I think I need to.”

Matt bit his lip. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

“Never been sure-er.”

“Tch,” Matt scoffed, “That’s not a word.”

“Is to, I just said it,” Foggy said. He topped off his glass, refilled Matt’s and sat back in his chair. He tipped his drink towards Matt. “Speak”

Matt opened his mouth, closed it. He laughed, softly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Bullshit. You’re a lawyer, you always have something to say.”

“That’s always been your strong suit. Not mine.”

Foggy paused, contemplating the ice in his glass. Matt had a point. Foggy was the quick mouth. Sure, Matt could, and did, hold his own, but he was more likely to use silence, to draw it out and plan out exactly what he was going to say before he spoke. Foggy made it up as he went along, which was probably while he had a chronic case of foot-in-mouth. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“You’re still not my priest,” Matt said. “But...I don’t want to. Avoid the question, I mean. I want to tell you.” And for all Foggy could tell, Matt meant it. “I just. You never _asked_ a question.”

Foggy looked at him. Matt was leaning forward earnestly, Facing Foggy almost as if he could see him, but there was something off. Even through the glasses, Matt wasn’t looking directly at him, and Foggy wanted him to.

“So I’ll ask you questions,” Foggy said. “And you will answer, and you will answer truthfully. This won’t work if you start lying to me again.”

“Promise,” Matt said. “I won’t lie.” He paused. “But…you may not like some of the answers.”

Foggy shook his head. “That’s my problem, not yours.” He sipped his drink. Matt was tense, had been tense, but it was a tension Foggy had seen before, in the courtroom or in the office, when Matt was about to do something he didn’t want to do, but felt that he should. Catholics. “So, here’s a question. How many fingers?” He held up two fingers. 

Matt swiped at them. “Two, jackass. How is that your first question?” 

“What _can_ you see?” Establish the groundwork before you build. 

“It’s not sight, it’s sound” Matt said again, and thought for a moment. Foggy wasn’t stupid, he’d done some reading reading on Bats and Dolphins and natural sonar; their brains painted a picture of their surroundings made from the sound waves bouncing off of things.“The closest I can think to explain it is...shadows, mostly. Red, pulsing. Sometimes it’s bright like fire, others dark like blood. Movement. It’s never clear, and more often than not I can’t really make sense of it without focusing.”

“Focusing, how?”

“On my other senses.” Matt licked his lips. “For example, I walked in this morning and I knew there were two people in the office—I could hear two heart beats. Our walls are thin, and it’s almost like I can see through them. The windows were open, I could hear the voices outside, too, and they echo through the room differently when open, but everything was muffled enough to know that I was on _this_ side of the wall and the door was closed. I knew it was Karen because her clothes still smell faintly of honeysuckle,” Karen had been fond of a Bath and Body Works Spray until she started working for them and realized it was too strong for Matt’s nose, “and you because,” here, he hesitated. “Because you were talking. And you used your mother’s washing machine to wash your shirt, it always smells like burnt lint and lavender.”

Foggy frowned. “You paused. How else did you know it was me.”

Matt sighed, drained his glass, holding it out to Foggy. Foggy picked up the bottle. “I recognized your heartbeat.” Now it was Foggy’s time to pause.

“You know I’m not really comfortable with that,” he said. It was still mostly true. Matt shrugged.

“I can’t exactly turn it off. If I could…” he spread his hands wide, as if to say _“I wouldn’t be here.”_ “I’ve known you a long time, Foggy. It’s the same as you recognizing me by the sound of my voice.”

“Voices aren’t internal,” Foggy countered. “But that’s neither here nor there. So, you see, what? How did you say it?”

“A world on fire.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” Foggy raised an eyebrow. “That line actually work for you?”

Matt grinned, sheepish. “Yeah, actually. It did.”

“You jackass,” Foggy said fondly. “It was Hottie McBurner Phone, wasn’t it?”

“Her name is Claire, and you know it. You like Claire,” Matt said. “She had just been taken by the Russians, so it didn’t go farther than a kiss.”

Foggy pointed at him. “But you did kiss her.”

“Yeah. I kissed her.”

“Always the hot ones,” Foggy muttered. “She and you a thing, now?”

Matt looked down. “No,” he said. “She likes me, and she stands with _him_ , but she can’t love them both as the same person.”

Foggy blinked at him. “Dude. That fucking sucks. Here.” He poured more into Matt’s cup. “I want you to have the eel.”

Matt laughed, surprised. “I don’t want the eel.”

“Everyone wants the eel,” Foggy countered. “It’s the prize in the crackerjack box!”

“I never wanted those, either. They were always stickers. I never liked the look of ‘em.”

Foggy paused for a moment, then it all caught up to him: The booze, the ridiculous conversation, Matt’s _Mattness_ , and he burst out laughing. It was contagious, and soon Matt was laughing too, loose and red-faced just like senior year, and Foggy felt something vital slip back into place. “I missed you, Matt.”

Matt’s laughter eased into a warm grin, suspiciously wet at the edges. “I missed you, too, Foggy.”

“Oh, no,” Foggy said. “You don’t get to cry at me, again. I am not strong enough to stand that again. You cry, then I cry, then Josie loses all respect for us, and then where would we be.”

“We’d be us.” Matt said. “Weeping Avocados.”

Foggy, who had tried to drink again, snorted the whiskey up his nose. “Ha! Oh, fuck, ow. Shit, that burns.” He had more questions, so many more, but they had time. They had time. 

***

They got the spins, and then some, and when they staggered out onto the street, Foggy insisted on leading Matt back to his apartment. The state they were in, it's a wonder they made it—Foggy weaving all over the place, Matt crashing into him, holding onto him because he's firm and solid, strong and _Foggy_ —Matt’s rock when he feels like he could float away. It's good, better than good, better than Matt has been in a long time. 

Foggy starts singing, more _Pirates of Penzance_ because Foggy was and always will be a theatre kid at heart, but he's far too wasted to make it through _Modern Major General,_ and every time he flubs a line, Matt sets off with another peel of laughter. 

He thinks maybe, maybe that was the point when Foggy stops them for a red light and just stares at him. 

"What?" Matt asked, still hiccuping. 

"You really should laugh more," Foggy said. "You've got a beautiful smile, really it’s unfair."

Matt’s grin softened. "Haven't felt like laughing much, really." 

"Well, no," Foggy said. "Because that's what happens when you turn yourself into a vigilante hero-of-the-night ninja type person." 

And that reminds Matt of Fisk and the Ninja at the docks, Stick and the war he tried, and failed, to prepare Matt for, and—

"Aw, hey no, what is that face? That's not a happy face." Foggy. Foggy, who is too good for any of this, too good for Matt—who Matt keeps pulling down with him. It's because of Matt that Foggy struggles to pay his bills, that they have a third-hand office and ancient equipment. "Stop it, Matty." Foggy said, firm, and Matt found himself turning towards that voice. "Yeah, I can hear you beating yourself up, and I don't have your superhearing, or whatever, so you know it must be loud."

Matt smiled. "You always could hear through my bullshit." 

"Not all of it," Foggy said, a sobering note of serious creeping into his voice. "But I'm getting there. Green Light." 

He was. Getting there. Matt hadn't had someone so close to him since Stick, and that asshole had made it clear just how much Matt had not meant to him. (And then he found that bracelet in his apartment. What the fuck did that mean?)

They make it to Matt's before Foggy can move from Gillbert and Sullivan to Andrew Lloyd Weber (Matt could forgive Foggy for Phantom, at least that was a horror story, but he sang _Cats._ ** _Cats!_ **. Matt now knew the words to “Magical Mr. Mistoffelees” simply because Foggy was occasionally a musical drunk.) The inside was a mess, clean but still broken. There was only so much Matt could do by himself, and he had been hesitant to ask Foggy's help. Still, Foggy helped him to bed, got his shoes off as Matt struggled with his tie, and Matt grabbed his arm when Foggy stood. "Stay," he said. "Crash here. It's late." 

He meant the couch, Foggy usually stayed on the couch, but Foggy just nodded, kicked off his own shoes, and pulled off his own tie. "Shove over," he said, and collapsed on the bed next to Matt. Matt didn't usually sleep next to people, they never lasted that long, but he had grown used to Foggy sleeping in college and it didn't occur to him to kick Foggy out until it was already too late. Matt fell asleep to the rhythmic hush of Foggy's sleep. 

***

The first time Foggy met Mat, he had been struck by two things: 

——Woah, blind! Way to stick your foot in it dumbass, and  
——Woah, beautiful! Unfair!

Foggy hadn’t been exaggerating when he called Matt “extremely attractive,” but Matt’s reaction, the flustered backpedaling straight guys did when they wanted to turn him down but not make things awkward, had Foggy covering it, speaking fast like he always did. For the next year or so Foggy stuck to talking with women with Matt, who seemed to go through the pretty ones like Kleenex. 

It never really bothered Foggy. Matt had slipped into “friend” territory so quickly that it never felt like a missed opportunity, and by the time Foggy started to miss guys and switch it up a little, it felt like Matt had been his best amigo forever. 

To date, it was the only secret Foggy had ever kept from Matt. He told himself that if things ever got serious with a guy, he’d tell Matt, that Matt wouldn’t freak out at him—he was Catholic, but that was more in a personal guilt way than in a convert the world kind of way, and besides, he had handled Ahmed across the hall just fine when _he_ came out—but he couldn’t get that first awkward impression out of his mind. In the end, he started dating Marci and it just...never came up. 

Of course, then he found Matt half-dead on his floor, still clutching that fucking black mask, and learned he’d never had any secrets in the first place. That, more than anything, hurt the most. 

***

Foggy woke to a jackhammer in his skull. It wasn't unusual after a night out with Matt, but still. Ow. It took a moment for Foggy to realize he was hearing an actual jackhammer, and he groaned, rolling over and wrapping a pillow around his head. Something felt wrong, however. This wasn't his pillow, or his bed. And he didn't usually sleep in his suit pants. 

They had gone to Josie's. They got tanked. He crashed at Matt's. 

"Shit," Foggy said, sitting up. The room lurched, his stomach followed, and Foggy booked it for Matt’s bathroom. 

After, Foggy was extra-careful with the Listerine, and he took his shirt off and left it in the bathroom, just in case. He dry-swallowed two advil, and brought some out for Matt--

_Matt!_

Matt was curled into a ball and breathing heavily, hands jammed against his ears. If the jackhammer was hurting Foggy—

Foggy sat on the bed and pulled at Matt until he shifted, still covering his ears, and Foggy rubbed circled onto his back. 

"Shh," he said, voice quiet and horse. "Shh. Listen to me. Block it out. Come on, Matty, you can do this." 

After a moment, Matt eased. His shoulders relaxed, his face unscrunched, but his ears remained covered. "How?" Matt asked thickly. "How did you know?" 

Instinct, Foggy didn't say. Basic understanding of comfort and care. When did people stop hugging you, Matt? "Would you believe _The Sentinel_?" he asked. "My older sister watched it. Thought the one dude was cute." 

"I...don't know what that is." Matt admitted. 

"Really?" Foggy asked. "I mean, it was out before you lost your sight." 

Matt shrugged. "We didn't have cable." 

"Huh," Foggy said. "Go figure." 

Outside, the jackhammer man took a break, and Matt finally eased his hands from his head. "I've got painkillers," Foggy said, and Matt, for once, held out a trembling hand. "I don't understand how you don't go through this stuff like candy," Foggy said, handing it over. "Your tolerance must be through the roof." 

"I don't use it much," Matt said. "Cuts, bruises... that pain is different, it's easy to ignore. My mind is stronger than my body." 

Right. Of course. "Sure thing, Mr. Spock," Foggy said, and lay back on the bed with a groan. "Why don't we call out of work this morning?"

"We can't call in hungover, Karen would know we went drinking without her and get mad." 

"If we go in hungover, she'll know anyway." Matt turned to look at him, well just to the left of him. "Oh no, don't you pout at me. It's not going to work. Everyone else might buy the act, Murdock, but your sad puppy-duck eyes won’t work on me." 

They went in. Karen knew, but limited herself to pouting until Foggy bought her an overpriced, oversweet frozen coffee thing (okay--it was a caramel frappuccino with whipped cream and whole milk. Marci had turned him on to them, knowing about his sweet tooth, and he had, in turn, spread the sugary love to Karen. He had a moral objection to Starbucks, and he hated that he, on occasion, still gave in), and things were good until Matt started to pout, asking where his coffee-bribe was. 

***

April in the City was wet; it rained nearly constantly, and even when the sun was out, the days grew damp and humid. It never bothered Matt as much as it did Foggy, who grew grumpy and irritable when he felt like he could never completely dry out. 

But in the rain--in the rain, Matt could see. Sound bounced off everything, cooling the fire that Matt saw and sharpening his focus.

Matt was more relaxed on rainy days. That was probably why Matt invited Foggy to join him at the gym that night. "Come on, Foggy," he wheedled, not proud. He pouted. He sulked. 

"Fine!" Foggy had said. "Fine, I'll go. Stop with the guilt, already. Sheesh. I don't know why _I_ have to suffer from _your_ Catholic guilt." 

He was at the heavy bag, falling into rhythm as he listened to Foggy let himself into the gym, swearing softly as he tripped in the dark. Whoops. "You should lock the door you know," Foggy called out as he came in, and Matt heard the click of the light switch. "Who knows what kind of lowlife could just walk in." 

Matt slowed his punches to a stop. "They'd regret it," he said, his grin sharp. 

"Yeah, I bet they would," Foggy said, voice oscillating. He was looking around. Matt was pretty sure he knew what the place looked like—relatively unchanged from when he had been a kid. The main area was dominated by the boxing ring. Around the edges were several types of equipment. Heavy bags, speed bags, Medicine balls and jump ropes. It was all very old school. The wall closest to Matt had old, peeling boxing posters, and one, torn nearly in half, said "Murdock vs Creel". If he ran his fingers over it, he could just make out his father’s name. "This place is very...you," he said. 

Matt laughed. "What does that mean?" 

"I mean it's decorated just about as well as your apartment, what do you think I mean?" Foggy asked. "I mean it's very _you_ , it feels like a place where you fit in,” he said, and then continued in a lower voice, “which would be surprising to anyone who didn’t know you, I guess." 

"I practically grew up here," Matt admitted. “Used to do my homework at a table in the corner. I learned Braille here. I..." Matt stopped and swallowed. "Hold the bag for me?" It was an offer, and Foggy knew it and joined him. 

Foggy gripped the bag by the sides. "Like this?" he asked. 

Matt tilted his head. "Just hold it steady," he said. "It's supposed to be like hitting a person, but it still swings too much without someone to brace it." 

"That's...yeah," Foggy said. "It makes sense when we're talking about boxing. It’s still a bit disturbing when talking about, you know. The ‘Daredevil.’” Foggy’s voice went mockingly deep on Matt’s newest title, and Matt snorted. 

“You know I didn’t pick the name,” he said. 

“I know,” Foggy agreed, and Matt could hear the synthetic leather of the bag creaking under Foggy’s grip. “It’s still better than any name I would have picked.” 

“Yeah?” Matt asked as he settled back into position. “What would you call me?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Foggy said, false levity in the way he sighed. His heart beat strong (the truth), but fast (and emotional truth). “The Punisher?” 

Matt, who had been already mid-swing, faltered, his hand banging uselessly against the bag as he pulled his punch. “That’s not funny,” he said. “And not fair. I don’t do it to punish people.”

“Fine.” Foggy said, and there was a resignation in his voice that Matt hated. It reminded him too much of his Dad, right before that last match--go down in the fifth. Sell your soul for those you love. Sacrifice your heart for your son. “Call it vengeance, call it retribution. Call it hard justice, when the law fails.” Foggy’s drew in a quick breath and huffed a sigh. He had really overdone it on the mints, and it made Matt’s nose itch. “You’re _are_ punishing yourself, though.” 

It was silent—not really, not in the city, but Matt occasionally lost himself in one place, where all the rest fell away. Foggy was blinding, filing his senses--sweat and cigars (he’d seen Brett today), heartbeat and breath that trembled, just a little (anger, fear, determination), the bag swaying, the heat of him right there (close enough to touch). Foggy’s breath hitched, and Matt braced himself for what he was going to say. 

“I get why,” Foggy said, quiet. “You exist where ‘Law meets reality.’ Poetic, that. I didn’t say before. But just because I’m beginning to agree that what you do is necessary, doesn’t mean I’m not scared shitless that you’re going to not come back one day. That you are going to get so beat up that you’re not going to be able to crawl back home, and then where the fuck would I be, Murdock, huh? Tell me? What am I going to to, if you--” Foggy cut himself off, and Matt was moving before he could think, grabbing Foggy and pulling him in closer. The bag bumped against his arm, weighing heavily against him, but Matt didn’t care. Foggy gripped him tightly. 

“Foggy,” Matt whispered into Foggy’s hair. “Foggy.” It was all he could think to say. 

“Remember that, when you’re out there,” Foggy said. “There are people here who need you. I need you.”

“I need you, too,” Matt said. “I can’t--I can’t do this alone, and...and I don’t want to.” 

“Then you won’t,” Foggy said, and pulled back. “After all, how different is this from all the other crazy shit you’ve dragged me along into,” he said, dry. 

It hit, right where it hurt, and Matt frowned. “Foggy, I’m sorry, I never--” 

“Cram it, Matt. I chose to come here.” Foggy said. “Just because you dragged me, doesn't mean you weren’t right. You were right about leaving Landman and Zack. You were right about Karen. You’re right about this.” 

“Some days, I’m not so sure.” 

“Well, that makes two of us,” Foggy said, and grabbed the bag once more. “Now. Show me what you’re made of, Murdock!” Matt wondered if Foggy knew just what he was asking. Matt had been leary of Foggy’s questions at first, agreeing out of a sense of penance. He hurt Foggy, and Foggy was getting his own back, but--it didn’t feel like punishment. It felt like confession. Every secret that passed Matt’s lips, every new piece of information offered lightened the burden on his own soul. Matt would tell all, gratefully, for a Foggy’s benediction. 

Matt knew he hit hard, and Foggy was knocked back a little at the first punch, unprepared. Still, he learned quickly how to lean into it, to brace himself and let his weight do the rest. 

"Your dad taught you to box," Foggy said when Matt was starting to tire (but never slow. He couldn't slow out there. He couldn’t slow in here). It wasn't a question, Matt had told him that much already, but Matt treated it like a question anyway.

"When I was a kid. He started when I was really little, like five." Matt spoke between hits, between breaths. "How to make a fist, how to hold your hands up, how to assess your opponent. When I was seven he taped my hands for me and showed me how to use the bag. By the time of the accident, I could hold my own, but I never went in the ring." Matt sighed, pausing again. "He wanted something to share with me, but you know he never wanted me to go in the ring myself." 

"Technically, you kept that promise," Foggy pointed out. 

Matt snorted. "I don't think this is what he had in mind." 

"So, you stuck with the letter of the law over the spirit. Still not enough to convict, your honor,” Foggy said, and then asked “So who did have it in mind? That guy, what's his name? Branch? Twig?"

Matt laughed, threw back and laughed. "Stick," he said at last. "His name was Stick." 

“Right, because your life is actually the plot of a comic book,” Foggy said, and shook his head. “Stick. Tsh.” 

Matt grinned. Why hadn’t he told Foggy about his abilities before? These past few years would have been so much better if Foggy had just known. "At first I thought Stick wanted me for me, for Matt, but he just wanted a body to fight in his war." 

Foggy frowned. "What war?" 

Matt shrugged. "I don't know. He never told me." After the last time he saw Stick, Matt was sure he didn’t want to know, either. He leaned against the bag, coming in close to Foggy. "I meant what I said. I never planned on becoming this. I kept up the training because it had become, I don't know. A lifestyle? It made the rest of my life easier to navigate. It gave me something when I didn't feel like I had anything, you know? A reason to get out of bed." Matt had never said that part out loud, before. Not even Father Lantom knew of his dark days, where not even the fire in his eyes was enough to make him move. Foggy, though. Foggy had been here. He had seen Matt get low, though never seen his lowest. He didn’t have to say it out loud. He did anyway. 

"You don’t want to stop,” Foggy said after, repeating his words from the other day back to him as if they finally made sense. “You like it.”

"I do," he said. "God help me, I do. My dad never wanted me to fight, but I don't think I ever had a choice." Matt leaned in even closer, felt Foggy’s breath on his face, the heat of him in the chill air, and wondered if Foggy could feel him, too, burning inside. "It's like there's something inside me, Foggy. A will for violence, and it only ever calms when I'm out there. When I'm _him_." 

"You have a temper," Foggy said, point and counterpoint, speaking truths Matt didn’t think he was ready to hear. "Color me shocked." Matt backed away, and Foggy reached out, grabbed the front of his shirt. "No, wait. Listen. I mean it. You talk like your alter ego is that, a separate person, but I don't think he is. You have a lot of anger in you, Matt, and you've learned to channel it for good."

"It doesn't feel like anger," Matt said, near whispering and shaking. "It feels like fear. Like the devil himself. Grandma always said the Murdock men have the devil in them. What if she was right?" 

Foggy shook his head, the red corona flickering around him. "I don't think it works like that," Foggy said. "Is that why Stick left?"

"No," Matt said. "It wasn't the anger, or the fear.” He laughed, bitter. “He probably would have preferred the devil. He told me he wanted a soldier, not a son. He left me in the warehouse where we trained. Never came back." He placed his hand on Foggy’s and eased open his grip. 

Foggy wouldn’t let him, however, and twisted his hand to grab Matt’s. "What a fuckhead," Foggy burst out. "You were a kid, baby ninja or no, and he just left you there?" 

"The day before we started training with knives," Matt said. He wanted a drink. This conversation was intense, but he felt better at the same time. It was disorienting. 

Foggy rolled his eyes, the nuance of the gesture lost, but Matt had known Foggy enough to understand why he titled his head to that particular angle. "I'm rolling my eyes at you," he said. 

"I know." 

Foggy squeezed Matt’s fingers. "I know, you know. I felt it needed emphasis” He dropped Matt’s hand and paced away, his sneakers quiet on the gym floor. “ Is that why you got stabbed so much? Because Stick didn't teach you knives?" 

Maybe it was. Matt hadn’t thought of it like that. He spread his arms to the side. "I was _out of practice_ Foggy.” he said. “Yeah, I trained, but I hadn't been in a fight in almost twenty years. Mostly, I had used the other things he taught me." 

Foggy nodded. "Reading heartbeats, picking the hot women _every. single. time_ , and creeping on what I had for lunch two days ago." 

"Yeah, Among other things," Matt admitted. He had to show Foggy. He didn’t think he could explain it, not the way Stick explained it to him. Foggy had no reference, but maybe, for once, Matt could give that to Foggy. "Hey," he said, and cocked his head. "You want to learn to box?" 

He could sense Foggy’s surprise, hear the uptick of his heart, the whisper of his clothes as they shifted. "What?" 

"Box," Matt said, again. "Do you want to learn? I can teach you." It was so much easier to explain in action. 

“When would I ever need to box?” Foggy said, but he was already stepping closer. 

“Here,” Matt said, reaching out for Foggy’s wrist. “Make a fist.” 

Foggy made a fist and Matt ran his fingers over it. “Good,” he said. “Keep your thumb outside of your fingers, tucked in here. You hit here,” he ran the tips of his fingers over Foggy’s first two knuckles. “The tape runs across here, and between your fingers. It creates a cushion here,” across the back of Foggy’s hand, “and adds support down through your wrist.” His fingers trailed down and slipped around said wrist. 

“Right,” Foggy said, a bit breathless. 

“There’s tape in my bag. Grab it, and I’ll show you how it’s done.” 

“Okay,” Foggy said, and moved away. Matt heard him dig through the bag, careful not to move things around too much. Matt rubbed his fingers and waited. “Here.” Foggy handed the tape out to him, and Matt took it. 

“Now, some people use cotton tape that comes with an elastic piece that you slip over your thumb, but I do it the way my dad taught me. It starts in the same place.” He unwound a piece of cloth and held it against Foggy’s hand by his thumb, explaining as he went. . “You pull it back and begin at the wrist, twice, then wrapping it up around your hand, twice over your palm. Bring it back down to the wrist, then come up from your thumb to between your ring and pinkie finger.” He paused. “Too tight?” 

Foggy cleared his throat. “No, it’s good.” he said. His heart was a little fast, his skin warm, but Matt couldn’t hear a lie. 

“Good. You want it tight enough to stay put, but not so that it cuts off your circulation. Continue through each finger, then down around the wrist again, then palm, then over the tops of your knuckles where the fabric is gathered, then alternate, wrist and palm three times.” Matt secured the tape around his wrist. “There. You want to try your other hand?” 

“Maybe next time,” Foggy said. “You do it?” 

Matt grinned. “Sure.” He picked up the tape, moving much more quickly on Foggy’s other hand. “Good?” 

Foggy nodded. “Yeah. Good.” He held his hands up in fists. “Like this?” 

Matt covered Foggy’s right fist with his own. “Unclench,” he said, smiling. “Stay loose. Fingers together but hand open. You don’t want to actually make a fist until you’re ready to make contact. Boxing, as well as most martial arts, is about staying loose until the last possible second.” 

“Loose. Right,” Foggy said, and opened his hands. 

“Relax,” Matt said, laughing, reaching out to grab Foggy’s shoulder and shake. “You have to loosen up, Fog, or you’re going to hurt yourself.” 

“Easy for you to say, Master Splinter, you’re a freakin’ ninja.” Foggy grumbled, but he rolled his shoulders and tried to relax. 

Matt patted his shoulder when it had eased enough. “I was a boxer first. Now, remember,” he brought his own hands up. “When you throw a punch, the power comes from your waist, not your arms,” Matt demonstrated, moving slowly to emphasize the motion of his hips. “And breathe out.” He jabbed the open air, breath falling harshly from his lips. “Some people ‘Shh’, but exhale whatever you do, or you’ll just tire yourself out.” 

“Move your hips,” Foggy said. “Breathe.” He had a focus in his voice that Matt recognized from when they were elbows deep in court cases, from when they had studied and studied for the bar, from when Foggy practiced and practiced his Punjabi. Foggy had never been a slouch as a student. 

Maybe, just maybe, by the time Foggy had enough of his vocabulary for Matt to explain, he’d know enough that Matt could stop worrying about him so damn much. 

“We’ll start with the jab.” 

***

April dried and turned to May, and as May began to slip into June, Foggy began campaigning for a window unit air conditioner. “Yeah, we’re managing now, but what happens in August when it’s ninety in the shade, huh? What are we going to do then?” It still wasn’t in the budget, but Foggy could dream. 

Three nights a week, Foggy met Mat at the gym and learned to jab and hook, to use the heavy bag and the speed ball. He wasn’t ready to enter the ring, not yet, but he was getting there. (It was strangely intimate, those nights. Almost like Foggy was the one with the alter-ego. It was a rush, a high that lasted for days.)

Their question-game had continued, Foggy throwing out random questions when the mood struck him and no one was around to hear ("Can you read by feel?" "Yeah, Foggy, it's called Braille. Maybe you've heard of it." "No, no, I mean ink on paper." "Sometimes, if it's handwritten. Ballpoint is easiest, because of the indents. I used to be able to read money, but with all the anti-counterfeiting methods they use now, it's all the same to me."). Occasionally, just to be a dick, he held up his hand; “How many fingers?” Matt was never wrong. 

Of course, that got Foggy thinking. One day at the office, a blessedly cool morning where Foggy could stand to be at his desk instead of parked in front of Karen’s fan, the idea came to him. 

Matt could technically see through walls. 

“Matt,” he said softly, trusting his friend to hear. “You can see through walls, can’t you.” Through the glass, Foggy saw Matt lift his head. “No, don’t get up. I can see you. Nod or shake your head. Can you see through walls?” Matt nodded. “Dude!” He held up three fingers at waist height. “How many fingers?” Matt held up three fingers.

Now, Foggy stood, crossing quickly to Matt’s office. Karen glanced up, but returned easily enough to her book. They really needed to get some new clients. 

“You have literal X-Ray vision,” Foggy said, as quietly as he could. “This is amazing” 

Matt tilted his head to the side. “That’s not what you said last time.” 

“I’m a work in progress,” Foggy said. “How far does it work.” 

“Depends,” Matt said. 

“On what.” 

“On who it is.” 

Foggy blinked. “What do you mean?” 

Matt flushed, and Foggy felt his heart skip. He quashed it, reflexively, and Matt said: “A stranger, I can usually pinpoint at a few yards, more if they’re loud or wearing a strong scent. Someone I know, that extends to at least a block.” 

Foggy leaned in closer. “What’s the farthest you’ve sensed someone?” 

Matt swallowed. “I can usually tell you’re coming at two blocks, two and a half if I concentrate.” 

“Two and a half,” Foggy whispered. “Dude.” 

Matt’s mouth worked without sound “Yeah,” he said at last. 

***

This ... _thing_ he had for Foggy had built slowly, and he’d kicked himself a hundred times for the way reacted when Foggy had commented on his appearance. It wasn’t the first time someone had called Matt attractive, but well, what did they know? Matt knew just how often the appearance of something belied it’s true nature. You just couldn’t trust what you saw. 

So no, it wasn’t love at first “sight,” but Foggy was funny, and kind, and smart, and selfless in ways that made Matt’s heart melt. He showed Foggy how to guide, but it was Foggy who took to as naturally as breathing, who translated the world of gestures for him without a second thought. Foggy went with him to get a new pair of glasses, the pair he wore now, when a stray ball from Alpha Kai broke his old ones. Foggy bought him a new refreshable braille display for when they began their internship. (His parents had helped, had practically adopted Matt into their brood. Matt bought Foggy his first tie, asking the saleswoman for both a practical blue silk, and the most tacky, hideous tie they carried. He’d then asked her to wrap the package so that the tacky tie was the only one seen. Foggy had laughed so hard, Matt heard his heart flutter. It backfired, however, as Foggy wore the tacky tie with pride, making sure to tell Matt every time.) 

Foggy never treated him like glass, even when Matt felt jagged and broken. 

It wasn’t until after Foggy and Marci had gotten serious and fallen apart again, after Matt suggested leaving Landman and Zack, and Foggy followed without fear, after the Man in the Mask had become the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, had become Daredevil that Matt realized what was happening. Nearly losing Foggy had almost torn Matt apart. He _needed_ Foggy, and it scared the piss out of him. 

And when he woke, hard against sheets that still smelled of Foggy three days later, he panicked. 

In true Murdock fashion, his first stop had been Father Lantom. 

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. It has been three weeks since my last confession.” 

Though the screen, Matt heard Father Lantom humm. “I’m well aware of that, my son. You’ve become a regular.” 

Matt huffed a laugh. “You’re breaking from the script.” 

“I’m a priest, not a telemarketer. You respond better to this, anyway.” Father Lantom paused. “I’m surprised you didn’t come for a latte. The nuns don’t appreciate the steamed milk the way you do.” 

Matt grinned. “I’m trying to be serious, Father.” 

“So am I. What sins have you come to confess, my son?” 

I’m in love with my best friend and it scares the crap out of me. I don’t want to lose him, and if we do get together, Daredevil puts him at risk. “I have had sinful thoughts about my best friend. My male best friend.” 

Father Lantom was quiet for a moment, and then he snorted. “Cut the crap, Matt. You’re not here because you’re worried about your soul. Not over this.” 

“The church has been quite clear--”

“The Church is changing. The writing is on the wall.” Father Lantom sighed “God is love, Matt. Freely given, it is never wrong. Besides, you need someone to look after you. You left blood on the pew last week, you know.” 

Matt winced. “Sorry, Father.” 

“Hmm,” Father Lantom said. “I almost believe that.” 

Matt shook his head. “You’re either the worst priest I’ve ever had, or the best.” 

“A little of both.” Father Lantom shifted. Matt heard the creak of the wood under his weight, the rustling of cloth, the click of his rosary. “Now, why are you really here?” 

“I’m scared,” Matt said, and could not, for the life of him, force the rest of the words out.

“That’s because you’re human,” Father Lantom said, and sighed. “Pray for guidance, Matt. For strength. But personally, I feel like you should go get your fella. All that darkness in your life, you need something bright to hold on to.” 

Then Foggy had agreed to come to the gym, exposing Matt’s secrets with a few well placed words, and Matt had never felt less like a man without fear. 

***

Marci and Foggy never did get back together. Sure, they slept together a few times, drunk and horny, and it was fun, but Foggy’s heart was never in it. It didn’t bother Marci, and that was part of the reason she and Foggy remained friends. More often than not, now, when they met it was over lunch and they shared more gossip than kisses. She even started socializing with Karen and Matt, joining them for a while on the Fourth for their Not-B-Q at Karen’s apartment, when they set up a grill on the roof to cook hot dogs while they drank and watched/listened to the fireworks. She ended up having to leave early, however, when she was called in to work. (“On the Fourth? Marci! It’s Unamerican!” “Tell that to Captain America, apparently this involves him.”)

Ever one to land on her designer pumps, Marci had gotten a job with Stark Legal, that bitch, and she often came with juicy non-details of the legal life of The Avengers, including the photo-leak/fireworks scandal that took her away from them on the Fourth. It was all very hush-hush, and Marci wasn’t spilling. “There is something called Client Confidentiality, Foggy Bear,” she said. 

Foggy thought about countering with tales of being the personal lawyers for the Kitchen’s Daredevil, but the words never formed in his mouth. It was probably better that way. 

Either way, it was a smoggy, muggy day in mid-July that Marci finally broke. 

She put her drink, a simple Margherita because it was too hot for wine, down on the table with a click. Foggy, the straw of his own drink—a coconut pineapple Margarita because that sounded delicious—stuck to his mouth, looked up at her with wide eyes. He knew that click. That was a “I mean business” click. 

“So,” she said, in her shark-lawyer voice. “Have you fucked him yet?” 

Foggy choked. “What?” he asked spluttering. He should have remembered that she fought dirty when she felt she had something to prove. “Marci!” 

“Sorry,” she said, totally not meaning it at all, as he tried to mop up his shirt with the cocktail napkin, “He’s fucking you, then?” 

“There is no fucking!” Foggy hissed, and Marci sat back, manicured nails playing with her straw. 

“And that, Foggy Bear, is your problem.” Marci tilted her head, softening a bit. “I mean it, you know. You’ve mooned over him for long enough, and he’s been sending the blind equivalent of heart eyes at you for a while now.” 

Foggy sighed. “I’m pretty sure I should be offended at that on Matt’s behalf.” He shook his head. “It’s complicated.” 

Marci rolled her eyes. “Of course it is. Love always is. That’s why I’m not playing that game. Sex is sex. Love is lives.” She wiggled her finger at him, indicating both him and Matt. “And your lives have been wrapped up in each other since you both met. So fuck, already, walk off into the sunset, and stop sulking.” 

Marci was a damn good lawyer. Foggy was already seriously considering it. 

***

“Keep your hands up,” Matt said, and Foggy lifted his hands to guard. It was their first time in the ring actually sparring, and Foggy was definitely nervous. He wasn’t a violent man, and he wasn’t sure he was actually ready for this. He was well aware that Matt could kick his ass (he’d know it, honestly, for a long time, before he knew about Matt-the-ninja. In retrospect, Matt hadn’t been very discreet with his senses in college—especially in college). 

“They were up. They were totally up.” 

“Uh huh,” Matt said, smirking. “Right.” He was settled into a ready stance, hands loose and high, like he had been born in the ring—which he had been. 

“This is so unfair, you know that right?” Foggy said. “You’re an actual superhero—an enhanced senses ninja, even—and I’m...”

Matt grinned at him. “A badass defense attorney, capable of fending off sharks with your wit alone?” 

“Hey, be nice to Marci. She’s been a lot better since she started to work for Stark.” Foggy paused considering. “Hey, do you think she’s met the actual Avengers? Do you want me to put in a good word with her? Just in case you ever do one of those team-ups? You know the ones, where the good guys meet and fight because they think the other one’s the bad guy?” 

Matt laughed. “I’m not sure it works that way in real life.” 

Foggy shook his head. “Buddy, you have _enhanced senses_ from a _chemical spill_. In any other universe you’d be dead. I’m not taking anything for granted.” 

Matt banged his gloves together. “You gonna talk or are you gonna spar?” 

“Shouldn’t there be a bell or something?” 

Matt grinned and tapped the air with his glove. “Ding, ding.” 

“Shit.” 

Matt swung first, and Foggy dodged, the weeks of training taking over as he reacted, striking back even as he moved. He had no hope of connecting, but that wasn’t the point of this. This was to get him used to the rhythm, the movement of the fight—how to anticipate and counterstrike. Really, it wasn’t much different than prepping for a trial, though there was a bit more sweat. 

The longer they danced, the bigger Matt’s smile grew. He was holding back, sticking to straight boxing, thank God, but he wasn’t going easy on Foggy. Foggy was holding his own. He could do this!

“Hey! I can do this!” Foggy crowed, and missed Matt’s tell. Matt’s fist caught him on his left cheek, and Foggy stumbled backwards in surprise, tripping over his own feet and going down hard. 

“Foggy!” Matt cried, and hurried over to him, kneeling on the mat. “Foggy, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” 

Foggy opened his mouth wide, the skin over his cheek pulled tight and aching, but not enough to feel like anything was broken. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” Foggy said. “I should have had my hands up.” 

Matt didn’t appear to be listening to him, though, biting at the laces on his gloves to untie them. He pulled his right hand free and gently touched his fingertips to Foggy’s cheek. Foggy hissed, and Matt pulled back, trying again with less pressure. 

“It’s already bruising,” Matt said. “You’re probably going to have a shiner for a few days, but the skin isn’t broken. We should still get you an ice pack, though.” 

“Shit,” Foggy breathed, not daring to move too much. Matt’s fingers felt surprisingly good on his face, warm but still cooler than his skin. “We have to be in court on Tuesday. The Costas case.” 

Matt winced. “Sorry.” 

Foggy shrugged, knowing Matt would feel the motion if nothing else. “Nothing for it. Worst comes, I’ll see if Marci has any makeup tips.” 

Matt stood, jogging over to their bags. He rooted around in his for a moment, and pulled out a chemical ice pack, breaking it with a clean motion and grabbing one of the small towels that he kept insisting were not tea towels. He wrapped the pack in the towel as he walked back to Foggy, and knelt next to him again, pressing the ice pack gently against Foggy’s cheek. Foggy reached up to take the pack, his fingers briefly tangling with Matt’s. “Thanks,” he said. 

Matt sat back, joining Foggy on the mat. “So,” he said. “You and Marci...?”

“Hmm?” Foggy asked. “Oh. No. I mean, once or twice we had some fun, you know? But it’s not going to come to anything.” 

“Sorry to hear that,” Matt said. 

“Eh,” Foggy shrugged. “She’s not interested in a relationship, and I’m not interested in one with her.” He felt his heart speed up at that, and knew Matt could hear it. 

“Oh, yeah?” Matt asked, and he grinned. “Not with her? But with someone else?” 

And damn Marci for putting that thought in his head, because now Foggy could hear the hope in Matt’s voice, squashed nearly flat, but there.

Foggy nodded. ‘Yeah,” he said, slowly. “Yeah, I think I am.” He may actually have a chance, here, if he played it right. 

Matt raised his eyebrows. “You gonna tell me who?” 

“Hmm, nope.” Foggy said, leaning back, overly casual. His usual style of flirting, making them laugh until they made a move, wasn’t going to work here. He’d been making Matt laugh for years and Matt had yet to move. He’d have to be proactive.. “You’re the superhero lawyer. You figure it out.” 

“You want to what, play twenty-questions?” 

Foggy shrugged. “Turn about’s fair play.” He grinned. “Come on, Matty. It’s no fun if I just give it up.” 

Matt cocked his head, Foggy knew to concentrate better on his hearing. “So it’s someone I know, then?” 

“Yep,” Foggy said, popping the “p” sound. 

“And it’s not Marci.” 

 

“Nope.” Foggy shook his head once. 

“Karen?” Matt asked, and there was a bit of fear, there. Of disappointment. “I know you were interested.” 

“She isn’t.” Foggy confirmed, and it didn’t even sting much, anymore. She, like the rest of the women they knew, had locked onto Matt. Even Marci had looked first to Matt, though she had switched her focus to Foggy quickly enough. He was over it. “No, not Karen.” 

Matt thought for a moment, hesitating before he asked “Claire?” 

“More your speed than mine,” Foggy said. He’d seen her again since the first time they met, and he knew where she stood in regard to Matt. 

Matt snapped his fingers. “I knew it, you’re finally making a move of Josie, you sly devil.” 

Foggy sighed. “If you’re not going to take it seriously, Matt...” 

“You don’t see any other women regularly!” Matt protested. “At least, none that I know about--I never smell any perfume or baby powder or girly shampoo other than what you use--”

“You like my Strawberries and Cream, don't front, and it’s ninety-nine cents to boot. I need quality hair care for my luscious locks.” Foggy ran a hand through his hair. It had taken him some time to find a shampoo that didn’t make Matt sneeze, and somehow Suave strawberries and cream was it. 

“And you say I know her.” Matt continued, and then paused, and Foggy felt his heart race. “You never said ‘her,’ I just assumed.” 

“Yeah,” Foggy said, nodding. “You did. Shame on you. No cookie” 

“You haven’t been with a man since Law School,” Matt said, and it was faintly accusatory. Foggy had been too preoccupied with, you know, graduating and preparing for the bar to bother with sneaking around trying to get laid. Besides, by then he had Marci, and after that he just didn’t bother.

“It’s creepy that you know that,” Foggy said, without any real heat. 

Matt winced. “Sorry, I...” 

“Say it, Matt,” Foggy said, and put down the ice pack. “You know who it is, so just say it.” 

Matt’s lips were parted; he was breathing heavy. Foggy was sure that, if he could hear it, Matt’s heart would be racing. “Foggy.” 

Foggy knelt up, leaning in. Matt turned towards him, like a flower in the sun, but he didn’t back down. He never backed down. “Say it,” Foggy said, close, so close, he could feel Matt like an electric current on his skin. God, he was hard, a delicious yearning ache between his legs. Matt breathed in sharply and licked his lips. He whimpered on his next breath, and Foggy realized he was _tasting_ the air. “Fuck, that’s hot,” Foggy whispered. 

“Foggy,” Matt said again, like his brain was stuck, and he leaned in, but Foggy pulled away to watch him follow. 

“Say it. Who do I want, Matt?” 

“Me,” Matt said, barely a breath to voice, and Foggy nodded. 

“Yes,” he said, hissing it between his teeth, and met Matt in a kiss. Matt gasped, breathing in Foggy’s air, trembling as he met Foggy in the push and pull. When Foggy pulled away, he was breathless and Matt looked wrecked. 

“So, here’s a question,” Foggy said. 

“Yes,” Matt said. “Yes.” 

***

Matt clung to Foggy, half afraid that if he let him go he would disappear, and this would turn out to be some fevered dream where he woke half-dead in another dumpster. The other half simply couldn’t stop touching him. 

Foggy had always been stronger than he looked, a lifetime of working in backrooms and wielding tools had built firm muscle, and their recent training had further shaped his arms. Matt...may have a serious thing for Foggy’s arms. 

The walk was taking forever, mostly because they kept stopping to kiss, when Matt’s grip on Foggy’s arm simply wasn’t enough, when Foggy couldn’t take Matt pressed up along his side without doing something. Foggy started it, kissing him deeply while they waited for a red light to change, wrapping his arms around Matt’s waist and tilting him backward and off balance, Foggy was always knocking Matt off balance, but his grip was strong and Matt let himself be held, trusting Foggy not to let him fall. 

They broke apart as a truck sped by, horn blaring, and Foggy practically dragged Matt across the street. “Your place is closer,” Foggy said. “We’ll go there. We’d never make it back to my place.”

“I’m not sure we’ll make it to mine,” Matt said, and practically pounced, pushing Foggy into an alley and up against the brick wall, kissing him deeply. Foggy groaned, pulling Matt in again as Matt dragged his lip’s across Foggy’s, feeling the soft, tender skin, the rasp of stubble against his cheek, the slick heat of Foggy’s tongue. His world had narrowed to Foggy’s mouth. 

“I wanna get you off,” Foggy said, low and thick, and Matt didn’t think he’d make it if Foggy decided to narrate. “I want to see you come, on my fingers, my cock, your cock in my hand. I wanna suck your cock, make you scream.” 

“Nh. Foggy!” Matt panted, his knees weak. God, he could feel Foggy’s words like hands on his skin. His hips thrust, helpless, grinding against Foggy. 

“Matty,” Foggy said, reverent. “Fuck.” 

“Yes,” Matt said, nodding as he gulped down air. “Fuck me.” 

Foggy groaned, leaned in to press their foreheads together. “Damnit, Matt. You can’t just say things like that” 

Matt laughed, incredulous. “I can’t? What about you? Your voice, Foggy, it’s a hazard.” Foggy started kissing his face, little kisses soft and sweet, and Matt had to swallowed around a sudden surge of emotion. This was _Foggy_. Matt shifted, rolling his hips. “I don’t want to come in my pants in an alley.” 

He could feel Foggy’s grin against his skin. “Which means you’re about to, aren’t you?” he said, smug, but Matt could hear his heart beat, feel his skin flush, smell the salt and the sweat of him. “I got you so turned on you’re about to come in your pants, because I am just. that. good.” 

“Foggy,” Matt protested, because not Foggy was moving away, pulling back and leaving Matt cold and dark and--

“But hey, it’s not like I’m in any better--Jesus, look at you. You’re like, the best kind of porn. How can you even walk?” 

“Foggy,” Matt said again, and Foggy shuddered as he breathed, trembled, and then he was back, grabbing Matt’s hand and pulling him along. 

“Gotta get to a bed, Matt. Gotta get to a bed.” 

***

Foggy didn’t really remember the walk to Matt’s—sure, he remembered the kisses, and making out in the alley. He remembered his name on Matt’s lips, spoken like a prayer, a plea, and the way his cock had been aching for what seemed like _hours_ before they were up the stairs to Matt’s place, Foggy pressing up against Matt’s back while he fumbled with the lock. Matt’s neighbors probably thought they were drunk, and Foggy felt drunk, drunk on Matt, _drunk in love_ and Matt finally got the door open and had pulled him inside, guiding him around furniture in the dark, guiding Foggy back to the bed—pushing him down and climbing over him. 

His fingers found the edge of Matt’s shirt, and then his hands were touching skin, smoothing over Matt’s back, feeling the hard planes of muscle, the slightly raised ridges of new scars, and he pressed his fingertips in and down, scratching along Matt’s back, and Matt arched into the touch. 

Matt’s hands shook as they pulled at Foggy’s clothes, desperate to get them off, and Foggy sat up, moving with Matt until they were stripped skin-to-skin. Foggy sent a quiet thanks to the asshole company that installed that billboard, as it gave him just enough light to see Matt--skin washed blue, shadow-cut muscles, hard cock straining in the night air. 

Matt paused, holding still like he knows Foggy’s watching him, looking his fill, and Foggy couldn't find it in himself to look away. “Foggy,” Matt said, quiet, and Foggy reached for him. 

“Touch me,” Foggy said. “See me.” 

Foggy expected Matt to reach for his chest or his stomach, (not nearly as firm as Matt’s is, though Matt never really cared), or even for his arms (he’s not the blind one, he knew about Matt’s thing for his arms), but he didn’t. Matt reached for his face, fingers soft on Foggy’s forehead, his nose, tangled in his hair. It’s just was intense as it was last time, just as intimate, and this time, when Matt brushed his fingers over Foggy’s lips, Foggy didn't pull away, too-aroused and embarrassed. He opened his mouth, opens for Matt, and sucks Matt’s finger inside, licking around the pad, feeling the whorls with his tongue, and Matt jolted. 

“Fuck, Foggy.” 

Foggy pulled back with a pop. “You want me to suck your dick, Matt? Hmm? Make good on earlier?” 

“Yes,” Matt groaned. “I want all of it, Foggy, but I’m not gonna last.” 

“Yes you are,” Foggy said, rolling them over so he can shift down Matt’s body. “You’re a freakin superhero. You can hold on for me, buddy, can’t you?” 

Matt’s head dropped back against the mattress. “Foggy...” and that was an honest whine. Foggy grinned, and turned his attention to Matt’s cock—just as beautifully sculpted as the rest of him. He wanted Matt to come early, and often, and the way Matt strained not to buck when Foggy took him into his mouth made Foggy think he was going to get his wish. 

It had been a while since Foggy had sucked cock (eager and messy, wetting his hand as he held onto the base), and he could feel it straining his jaw. He didn’t care, though, not with Matt making those desperate, broken sounds around his forearm, biting down to try and keep quiet. Foggy didn’t want Matt to be quiet. He wanted Matt to be loud, loud enough to make the neighbors complain, and when he brought his hand up to cup Matt’s sack and press behind, Matt obliged, coming with a hoarse cry. 

Foggy pulled back, working him though the tremors, catching cum on his hand, his chest, Matt’s stomach. 

“Moneyshot,” Foggy said, and Matt laughed, full on belly laugh, even as he continued to writhe under Foggy’s hand. Fuck, Foggy wanted Matt to writhe like that on his cock. How beautiful would that be?

“Second drawer, left side,” Matt said, and Foggy blinked at him. “There’s stuff.” 

“Stuff? Foggy said, handsome eyebrow raised inquisitively,” Foggy said, and Matt swatted at him. Laughing, blocking weakly, Foggy leaned over to open the drawer, and sure enough, on the left side there was “stuff.” Condoms, a few types of lube, a pack of aloe wipes, and a-- “Is that a vibrator?” Foggy asked. 

Matt, still flushed from before, flushed further. “Yeah,” he admitted. 

“Where did you get this?” Foggy asked, reaching for condoms and lube. “Or did you pull your blind innocent puppy act on some poor unsuspecting sex shop clerk?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Matt said, breath hitching when Foggy opened the cap of the lube with a click. “I bought it on the internet, like a normal person,” he added. 

“It’s cute that you think that,” Foggy said. “You probably bought it when you were buying that stupid black costume, weren’t you? To hide the trace. You masked types are all the same.” He covered his fingers with a thick coat, and eased one of Matt’s legs back, opening him wide. “Okay?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Matt said. 

Foggy circled his fingers, spreading the lube, and snorted to himself. “Hey Matt? How many fingers am I holding up?” 

Matt choked on a laugh, and lifted his hips. “Don’t be a dic--Ah!,” he cried as Foggy pushed in with a single finger, working the muscle and coaxing it open. Matt was still relaxed from before, but was still too tight. 

“Relax,” Foggy said. “You have to loosen up, Matt, or you’re going to hurt yourself.” Matt groaned. 

“Dick,” he breathed. “You utter dick.” Still, little by little, Matt opened up to Foggy, and soon Foggy was fucking in and out with one and then two fingers. He added more lube, never too much lube, and added a third, narrating the entire time. “Matty, I’ve got three fingers in you now, can you feel them, the way they’re spreading you wide, because I can see them, see them fuck into you and it looks good Matt, so fucking hot, so shiny and slick.” 

“Fuck,” Matt breathed, straining, head thrown back. His cock had started to harden around the second finger, and it was once more hard, arching over his belly. “Fuck me, Foggy, Please, just fucking fuck me already!” 

“Language,” Foggy said, but was already pulling his fingers loose, wiping them clean on one of those aloe wipes. Matt felt around for a condom packet, ripping it open and passing it to Foggy. Foggy rolled it down quickly, for once it going on easy. “Next time,” Foggy started, and then stopped, because he couldn’t decide there was _still so much_ he wanted, and Matt was grinning and nodding. 

“Next time, yes, Foggy, yes, but now! Please! Fuck me!” 

Foggy grabbed a pillow, “Move your hips,” he said, and folded it under Matt, shifting the angle. He lined himself up. “Ready?” he asked. 

“Please!” 

“Now,” Foggy said, and pushed forward. “God, I’m sinking into you, Matt. You’re swallowing me up so good, I’m filling you up. Can you feel it, Matt? Can you feel me filling you?” 

Matt was too far gone to speak, head thrashing as Foggy moved in slowly, so slowly, red flushing spilling down over his chest. 

“Breathe,” Foggy said, gasping for air himself. “Breathe for me, Matty.” 

Matt gasped for air as Foggy sunk in the rest of the way, fully seated, and Foggy had to take a moment, but Matt wasn’t letting him, reaching for him, grabbing him, trying to get him to “move, damnit, move!” 

Foggy thrust, just a little, a tiny rhythmic shift in motion, and Matt responded so wonderfully with these little hitching gasps, and Foggy pulled back and _thrust_ in, and Matt howled his pleasure, crying for God, for Foggy, calling his name as Foggy fucked him in earnest, Foggy’s words gone as he lost himself to sensation. 

Foggy broke first, thrusting in deep and coming hard, his orgasm wrung out of him, and Matt pulled him in closer with his legs, still panting, still pleading, and Foggy had just enough mind to gasp out, “Do it! Jerk yourself off. Come for me,” and Matt grabbed himself gratefully and jerked himself to coming with Foggy still deep inside. 

Foggy eased himself out gently, but Matt still gasped, rolling towards him, reaching for him as Foggy tied off the condom and tossed it, the wrapper, and the wipe towards the trash. They fell tragically short, but Matt just said, “morning. In the morning, Foggy,” and Foggy let Matt pull him down, wrap himself around him, and between one breath and the next, they were asleep. 

***

Foggy’s black eye lasted a week. Karen giggled when she looked at the two of them for at least two. Matt’s happy grin is still going strong. 

END.


End file.
